


a stranded holiday

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, pure holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: A tiny house in the snowy mountains is Clarke's haven for ringing in the New Year in peaceful solitude. Tropes and romance ensue. Happy New Year Kru :)





	a stranded holiday

It’s not the worst way to spend her holiday.

Unconventional, yes. Potential fodder for a serial killer novel, also yes. But Clarke is nothing if not unorthodox, and she took those free Krav Maga classes last spring that left her feeling like a complete badass well into the winter season. As she drives farther into an unfamiliar, heavily-wooded area, she doesn’t let a creeping unease win out over her determination to have a new experience.

What she doesn’t anticipate is the prolific mud. Her car isn’t that old—no matter it dates back to the year she graduated high school—at the very least, it doesn’t _feel_ old. Still, it struggles to maintain its grip on the slick, narrow road that is winding her deeper into snow-lined trees and away from civilization. The car slips more than once, and Clarke’s hands grip the steering wheel until her tires regain traction.

“Shit,” she exhales just as the tiny, wood frame house appears in a small clearing up ahead. “Finally.”

The drive hasn’t been excruciating, just long enough to have her craving a good stretch of her back and limbs in the open, mountain air. She’d given up on the accuracy of her GPS some twenty minutes prior, hoping like hell she wasn’t driving to meet her own demise in the mountains of New Hampshire. The car’s wheels spin one last time, but Clarke jams the parking brake and cuts the engine. Enough is enough. She’s within walking distance anyway and no slouch to some mild hiking activity (so long as it is at a low-grade incline with an end in sight).

Her boots fair so much worse in the thick mud than her car tires, and Clarke nearly goes ass first into the messy driveway slush on more than one occasion. But, she keeps going. If being a woman in 2018 has taught her nothing else: it is to persist.

The house is, indeed, very small. Tiny houses are the going trend for overworked, underslept city folk who long to commune with nature and destress before anxiety overtakes their busy lives. Though she’s lived in Boston for years, Clarke has yet to bend to this current fad—has never once longed to sleep in a treehouse or yurt or luxury teepee—but she is also not above capitalizing on free lodging.

‘Take the reservation,’ Raven had said to her a few days ago. ‘I’m gonna have to eat the cost of the house anyway since my girlfriend— _ex_ -girlfriend is a thankless, thoughtless pain in the ass. Someone may as well enjoy my fucking spoiled romantic gesture.’

An ill-timed break-up (that Clarke doesn’t think will last through New Year’s Day) means that Raven’s booked get-away house set in the White Mountains is now Clarke’s end-of-the-year lodge of peaceful solitude. Too sullen to join her, Raven had stayed at home in Cambridge to stew and wallow about her broken relationship.

It’s brisk, but not freezing, and any snow in sight is residual from earlier storms. Clarke treks along the muddied path towards the front door with a duffel slung over her shoulder and the curiosity of new surroundings ringing in her ears. She doesn’t notice the small trickles of smoke curling upwards from behind the house. She doesn’t think twice of the blue cooler sat beside the front steps. She definitely does not anticipate the door swinging open as she searches her messages for the security code Raven had sent her.

“Shit!” she starles, now with a spiked heart rate and unchecked fear ricocheting against her ribcage.

_Death by serial killer it is then._

“ _Shit_!” she says again as her boots, entirely caked in slippery mud, have her careening backwards off the first step.

A hand wraps around the material of her coat, near her upper arm, and helps to right her balance again. The courtesy of mad, woodland murderers is not something Clarke had expected, and she looks up to meet the face of an equally startled woman about her age.

“Are you okay?” the woman asks, slowly releasing her grip on Clarke’s jacket.

The woman is, without being dramatic, extraordinarily attractive, and Clarke can only hope that her audible stutter isn’t as noticeable to the woman’s ears behind the flaps of her woolly hat. “I—um, yes. You scared the living shit out of me.”

A subtle shift crosses the woman’s face, something on the edges of a smile. “Likewise.”

“Are you—sorry, are you here cleaning the house between guests or—” Clarke’s heart continues to thump as she searches for all the logical reasons she would be having this random encounter.

“No, I’m … staying here.” Green eyes also begin to  show signs of mounting confusion.

“Fuck. Do I have the wrong house? I’m going to kill Raven if she gave me the wrong address.” Clarke is looking to her phone again when the woman in front of her says:

“Raven? Reyes?”

Clarke’s eyes snap up. More unease. More rapid heartbeats. More wild confusion. “You know Raven?”

The woman exhales slowly. “No, not exactly. I’ve … heard a lot about her, but we’ve yet to officially meet.”

It clicks then, and Clarke’s rampant anxieties start to ebb even if her confusion continues to swell. “Anya. You know Anya, don’t you?”

The brief suggestion of a smile that will now haunt Clarke’s consciousness for years to come, reappears. “You could say that.” The woman extends her hand a moment later that is covered in a well-worn fingerless glove. “Lexa.”

Clarke takes the proffered hand and returns her fleeting smile. “Clarke.” She releases her grasp after a moment and then says, “So, this is really weird.”

“Yeah. I know.” They’re still stood near the open doorway while warm, welcoming heat cuts into the cold, outside air. “Did you want to—” Lexa fumbles a bit in her offer, clumsily gesturing to the door at her back “—come inside?”

“No,” Clarke laughs. “No, I’m not gonna stay—there’s obviously been a huge mix-up.”

“Right. Anya offered me the space while I’m in town for the night. Apparently there’s been a change of plans for she and Raven,” Lexa explains.

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Interesting interpretation of events.”

Lexa shrugs. “I know only what she told me.”

“Yeah well, what I know is that your friend kind of left Raven in the lurch for New Year’s.”

“Sister.”

“What?”

“Sister,” Lexa repeats. “Anya is my older sister.”

She’s met the enigmatic Anya only a handful of times and yet, somehow she can sense the relation. “Oh. Okay then, your _sister_ abandoned—”

“Anya does not abandon anyone,” Lexa counters with some surprising ferocity. “No matter what your friend may have told you.”

Clarke’s first instinct is to defend the validity of her best friend, but her toes have started to go numb and her stomach cramps in hunger pangs. This is no time to engage in a circuitous argument with a complete stranger, no matter her urge to do just that.

“Look, whatever happened between Raven and your sister, it’s obvious some lines were crossed about this house, so I’m just going to … go,” Clarke sighs, begrudgingly slipping her phone back into her coat pocket and adjusting the strap of her duffel against her shoulder.

“That’s not—I mean that doesn’t seem fair,” Lexa argues, stopping Clarke in her backwards pedal away from the front door. “You were promised a place to stay, too.”

“It’s totally fine. I’ll just drive back into Boston and spend the holiday at home in my pajamas like I’d originally planned—it’s not even that far of a drive. Enjoy the house,” Clarke smiles, trying to stave off her disappointment.

“You should stay.”

“What?”

Lexa seems to recalculate the context of her offer and blushes a very pretty shade of pink. “What I mean is: I’ll go. You should stay here for the holiday.”

“No, of course not—I’ll just go. I mean, how did you even get here?” Clarke asks with a short head spin to double-check that she’d not completely overlooked another car on the property.

“I took a car from the bus station.”

“See? It makes more sense for you to stay then. My exit is easily accessible … assuming I can get out of this mudpit.” Clarke mumbles on the last few words, casting a wary eye towards her car and its precarious parking spot.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Clarke smiles, feeling uncertain about absolutely everything at the moment, not least of which is the issue of her car. “It was nice meeting you, Lexa. Have a nice holiday.”

“Thanks, you too.” Lexa’s smile looks hesitant as Clarke turns away and trudges back towards her car.

:::

Predictably, the process does not go seamlessly.

Her car tires spin and splutter, twist and turn, but Clarke’s car does not budge. Expletives fly and her hands bang out frustrations against her steering wheel—all to little effect against the fact that she is very much stuck on a mountainside. Lexa, who has since disappeared behind the backside of the tiny house, now makes her way towards the car. She stops beside the driver’s side window and offers a partial wave while Clarke rolls down the window.

“Hi. Do you want any help?”

“No, I’m fine,” Clarke waves her off with an easy smile. “I think I’ve almost got it.”

Lexa nods, entirely unconvinced. “Okay, well. There’s some pieces of wood behind the house that might help to give you traction if you wedge them behind your tires.”

Clarke sighs, resigned to accept the help of a beautiful stranger. “Sure. I’ll give it a try.”

Their collective efforts are a spectacular failure.

After another thirty minutes, with Clarke officially delirious from hunger and lack of coffee and Lexa splattered in more mud than which Clarke is comfortable seeing, she throws in the towel. “Forget it—just fucking forget it. This is pointless. I give up. I’m calling my insurance company for a tow.”

“Clarke, it’s New Year’s Eve. Do you really think that—”

“What, people don’t get stranded on New Year’s?” she counters, already searching the internet for her insurance’s customer service line.     

Lexa brushes her hands against her jeans, standing silently beside the car while Clarke speaks with an insurance agent. When she ends the call, Lexa is watching her with some expectancy. “What did they say?”

“They’re contacting a local tow, and I have to wait for their call to confirm the location.”

“You should … come and sit by the fire while you wait,” Lexa offers with a small gesture towards the house. “It’s much warmer over there.”

Clarke hesitates, even though some warmth sounds absolutely divine after being stood out in the cold mud for almost forty-five minutes. “I feel like I’m imposing.”

“Well, I feel like I’m evicting you during the holidays, so I guess we’re even.”

Clarke laughs with a conciliatory nod. “Okay, fine.”

:::

Even after thirty minutes, Clarke continues to feel restless, despite her gorgeous surroundings. Late morning sunlight slices through the thick canopy of trees above, and Lexa has built a cozy fire in the circular stone pit around which they sit in mismatched patio chairs. The mountainside is draped in a hushed, wintry quiet except for the crack and pop of the fire pit.

Still, Clarke checks her phone perpetually, loses focus more than once on she and Lexa’s intermittent conversation, and nervously jostles her leg as the wait for a call from the tow stretches towards an hour.

“Are you hungry?” Lexa eventually asks.

Famished and light-headed, Clarke can practically feel her stomach folding in on itself in hunger. Damn her penchant for skipping breakfast in lieu of cold brew. She’d packed food for lunch and dinner, all of which requires cooking and preparation and the use of a kitchen. She’s too hungry to feign otherwise. “Starving, actually.”  

“Great. Me too.” Lexa stands from her seat across from Clarke without another word and disappears into the tiny house, leaving Clarke to vacillate between staying put and following her inside.

She returns some minutes later with two, steaming bowls of thick soup. With a guarded smile she hands one to Clarke, who immediately salivates. “Oh my god, this looks amazing.”

“I will be sure to extend your compliments to Whole Foods.”

“Ah-ha,” Clarke chuckles. “Not much of a cook?”

“I love to cook, actually, but with my line of work I don’t find myself with much time for it.”

“What do you do?” Clarke asks, slowly swirling her spoon through the soup as it cools.

“I work in the medical field.”

“That’s a pretty broad field,” Clarke smirks, feeling more relaxed now with the prospect of food.

“I trained as a trauma surgeon, though I never fully completed my residency.”

Clarke’s eyes bulge at the reveal, knowing all-too-well just how intense the training can be for that particular profession. “Wow.” She has about a hundred follow-up questions—one of which is definitely ‘is there any chance you trained in Boston and know my mother’—but Lexa interjects with a question of her own just before taking her first spoonful of soup.

“What about you?”

“Oh. I, uh, help run a youth center in East Boston with Raven. I also do some adjunct work at one of the local universities, but I consider the center to be my full-time career.”

“What do you teach?”

“I make a very valiant attempt at teaching figure drawing and visual arts during the school year,” Clarke self-deprecates. “At the center we focus more on artistic expression in a social emotional capacity.” Clarke takes a bite of the still-steaming soup and hums. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Chipotle pumpkin and black bean,” Lexa shares with a smile. “And that sounds like an amazing program.”

“Yeah, it is. I feel really lucky to be doing what I’m doing.” They lapse into companionable silence until Clarke’s bowl of soup is nearly gone. “Thanks again for splitting your lunch.”

“Of course. There’s more inside on the stove if you’re still hungry after that bowl.”

“Hopefully, I’ll be out of your way soon,” Clarke says instead of telling Lexa that she is, in fact, _always_ hungry at any given moment. Lexa doesn’t respond before returning her attention to her own bowl of thick soup. “Are you working here in Boston then, or somewhere else in the area?”

“No, I don’t tend to work locally very often. I travel quite a bit.”

“Oh. Anywhere interesting?”

“Um, yes,” Lexa exhales. “I’ve spent the past month in Tijuana, aiding with the border crisis there.”

A selfless surgeon specialized in trauma who looks like she could model couture fashion in her off time. Clarke suddenly feels dumbstruck by the woman across from her and responds lamely, “Oh, wow. That must be very ... difficult.”

“It can be. I left my residence in Boston prematurely when I started volunteering with humanitarian nonprofits that work predominantly with refugees and migrants.”

“That’s—that’s really incredible.”

“Well,” Lexa’s smirk is tinged in something like guilt. “Technically, I left to follow a girl.”

“O-Oh,” Clarke stutters again, pulse picking up pace as she reevaluates Lexa in light of the new information. Emboldened by the warmth of the soup and the fire and the way the sun has lightened the color of Lexa’s auburn curls, Clarke decides to open a door of her own. “I feel like that’s more admirable than reckless—the craziest thing I’ve ever done to impress a girl is probably the ice sculpture in freshman year that I carved outside the Poly-Sci building.”

Lexa’s smile brightens as she nods. “Impressive. So did it work? Did you get the girl?”

“Ah, no. She was incredibly flattered, but also incredibly straight,” Clarke grimaces lightly. “What about you?”

“You mean, did abandoning my expensive education for the sake of an impassioned activist with a pretty face actually pay off?”

“Yeah,” Clarke laughs.

“We were together for two years. She ended things last month.”

Clarke’s smile fades and she offers Lexa a look of genuine sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I’m hoping a few days of solitude will be restorative.”

“Oh god—solitude that I’m completely ruining,” Clarke says, awash with fresh guilt over her continued presence. She places her now-empty bowl onto the flagstones at her feet and reaches for her phone again. “I’m going to call them back and see what’s taking so long.”

“No, that’s not—I didn’t mean to imply that you’re impeding on my time, Clarke.”

“I am though.”

“You’re not.”

Lexa’s voice is both soft and stern and her steady gaze has Clarke biting at her lower lip while her heart hammers. “I’m going to call,” she says and stands up on shaky legs.

:::

“Any update?”

They have since moved indoors as temperatures continue to drop and a light snow now falls outside the east wall of the house, which is made entirely of glass. Lexa had cleared their bowls and extinguished the dying fire while Clarke spoke with her insurance agent for the second time.

“Nothing productive. They’re still waiting for an estimate from the garage on how long it would take to get a truck out here.”

Clarke is curled in a soft, overstuffed chair that sits low to the ground, arms wrapped around her knees. Lexa enters into the scant living space off the open kitchenette, wiping her hands on a red-and-white tea towel.

“We could try the car again if you wanted,” she offers. “Maybe the ground has firmed up a bit since this morning.”

Clarke had arrived around eleven-thirty, and her phones tells her now that it’s nearly 2:00. She sighs, “Yeah. I probably should.”

“You don’t have to,” Lexa is quick to add. “I just don’t want you to feel … stuck.”

Clarke laughs and runs a hand through the tangles in her hair from having just removed her hat. “That is precisely what I am.” Lexa’s rueful smile as she takes the only other seat in the room has Clarke lightly clearing her throat and looking down to her lap. “Could be worse, though.”

Her face warms with a low flutter in her stomach when she looks up to see Lexa’s timid smile and careful gaze. “Agreed.”

:::

“I’ve already stolen half your lunch, I’m not going to take your alcohol too.”

Attempting to move the car again had been a complete bust, in that Clarke and Lexa had never actually made it out of the house. They instead continued their easy conversation and casual banter across all manner of topics: work, food, family, the inexplicable fire-and-ice that comprises the relationship between Anya and Raven.

Lexa had only cracked open the front door wide enough to snag her cooler of beer off the front steps, but still she returns inside the warmth of the house with giant snowflakes stuck in her hair and across her shoulders. Clarke bites at the inside of her lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

“I’m actually sort of a lightweight.” Lexa shrugs adorably, extending a can of beer to Clarke despite her refusal to indulge. “I won’t end up drinking more than a couple anyway.”

“Real rager you had planned to ring in the new year, huh?” Lexa grins at Clarke’s teasing, relentlessly dangling her proffered beer. Clarke finally acquiesces without much resistance, groaning audibly as if accepting the drink is physically painful. “Okay, fine. Are you always this nice to people you barely know?”

“Side effects of the trade, I guess.”

“Right,” Clarke nods, popping open the tab on her beer as Lexa does the same. “Cheers.” She lightly taps their cans together before finding her seat again as they sip the beer in silence.

Feeling absurdly bashful and suddenly out-of-place in this house with a beautiful stranger, Clarke’s laughter breaks into the quiet moment.

“What’s so funny?” Lexa asks.

“Today has just been _very_ strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lexa considers her for a moment, which does fuckall to alleviate Clarke’s nerves. “Unexpected. In a good way.”

Clarke allows her gaze to linger for a moment longer, too, feeling her cheeks flush. “So, this tow …”

“Probably isn’t coming anytime soon,” Lexa says carefully, taking another sip. Her gaze drifts to the large window at Clarke’s back. “The snow is getting worse.”

Clarke lets her head tip back against the chair and closes her eyes. “I’m going to have to call a car, aren’t I? Fuck. This is going to cost me a fortune.”

When Clarke’s eyes return to Lexa, she is flicking the tab of her beer can and considering Clarke with some level of visible apprehension. “Or, you could just stay.”

“I’m—I couldn’t—”  

“Look, I’m sure my perceptions are skewed because I spend a lot of my time sleeping in undesirable accommodations with sometimes hundreds of other people, most of whom are complete strangers … but, there are two giant beds here, plenty of food.”

“Lexa— _no_. No way! That would be—no way.”

“You can text my sister,” Lexa offers in all sincerity, reaching for her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I promise that between the two of us, I am not the unpredictably violent and mentally unstable one.”

At that, Clarke laughs again. “You don’t even know me!”

“Yeah, well, I’m working that.”

A breath catches in Clarke’s chest, and she wonders if her face now matches the red chair in which she sits based on the self-satisfied grin Lexa is wearing. She has not been hit on in ages—has not been hit on this _skillfully_ in even longer, let alone by someone she is undeniably attracted to. Lexa sits quietly sipping her beer, letting the offer hang in the space between them, but her lingering smile indicates that she knows Clarke is at least considering the ludicrous proposition.

There is no logic here—no rational scenario in which this makes any sense—which is probably why it appeals to Clarke so strongly. She has always defied logic anyway, or so her parents have told her since she was young. Blazed her own trails, followed the beat of her own drum, etc. etc. This is also precisely the type of situation her very same parents would have warned her against—spending the night in secluded locations with complete strangers of which she knows very little.

(Other than the shape of her chin, or plume of her lip, or the multiple other features that Clarke has studied to memorization over the past few hours.)

“Do you like salmon?” she finally asks, apropo of nothing but their continued silence.

Lexa’s expression slips into mild confusion. “Yes. Why?”

Clarke unzips her duffel to remove a separate insulated bag of food. She stands from the chair and carries it into the kitchenette, answering Lexa from over her shoulder. “Because I’m cooking it for dinner.”   

Lexa follows closely behind, still holding her phone and wearing a look of hesitancy. “My sister really will be brutally honest with you. We can call her if you want further vetting, in all seriousness.”

Clarke sets her palms flat against the countertop with a determined sigh. “No, it’s okay I—don’t ask me why, but I trust you.”

When she looks up, Lexa is watching her with something like hopeful uncertainty. “Do you?”

She honestly cannot explain why. Maybe it’s the comfort of Lexa’s soft timbre and the delicate way she says her name. Maybe it’s the slant of her mouth as she’s curbing her smile. Maybe it’s just the warmth of her presence that eludes all reasoning. Whatever it is, Clarke’s answer is the same: “Yeah. I do.”

Lexa pockets her phone with a smile. “Good. I trust you, too, Clarke.”       

:::

“So, you do, apparently, make time for cooking in your daily life,” Lexa says after her first bite of the meal Clarke had spent about an hour preparing.

It’s a subtle compliment of the food that nevertheless has Clarke smiling over the rim of her water glass. “It’s probably my favorite thing to do, next to my other creative pursuits of drawing or painting.”

“It shows. This is one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Clarke had puttered around the infantismile kitchen—chopping and searing and sauteéing—while Lexa hovered nearby and fiddled with playing music, or fetching Clarke a fresh beer, or reaching into the upper cabinets in search of plates. Clarke is used to living and cooking alone, but Lexa’s companionable presence has an air of familiarity that immediately put her at ease, even in such a small space.

“So,” Clarke says after sampling her own bite of food. “You were explaining how it was that you ended up working with the IRC, before you were so distracted by my amazing cooking.”

Lexa smiles, conceding to Clarke’s bravado with a subtle nod before continuing their line of conversation about her work. It’s such an effortless volley of shared stories and glimpses into each other’s lives that before long, they are left with empty drinks and empty plates, and Clarke can no longer determine the passing of time. The sun has set, leaving them in the low light of lamps and squat, electric heaters that glow orange-and-red.  

“These were the last two beers,” Lexa says as she finishes her last sip and shakes the can.

“Good,” Clarke smirks, excusing herself from the table in search of her bag. She hoists a stout bottle of honey-colored liquid by its short neck. “Because I’m in the mood for bourbon.”

:::

“You date women and men then?”

Clarke has just finished a recap of her latest dating disaster—a well-read graphic designer with nice hair and a charming smile but abhorrent taste in media consumption. Clarke can overlook quite a lot when it comes to dating prospects, but she has absolutely zero tolerance in terms of bad writing for film and television.

“Yep. An equal opportunity employer,” Clarke grins to Lexa’s amusement. “I would say I’m like a 4.5 on the Kinsey scale. What about you?”

Lexa hums, tapping the side of her rocks glass with an index finger. “What’s the number for a perfect score?”

“That’s not how it works,” Clarke laughs, launching a throw pillow in Lexa’s direction, which she easily bats away to the floor. “Just women then?”

Lexa shrugs, watching the bourbon swirl in her glass around a melting ice cube. “I’m interested in men in other ways, just not …”

The air around them condenses in an instant, and Clarke’s ears begin to ring in the ensuing silence that follows Lexa’s vague reference to sex. Though she sips her drink and clears her throat, Clarke’s voice still scratches as she eventually says, “Right.”     

:::

“I’m sorry about Costia, by the way.” Clarke is refilling their glasses for at least the third time, her head pleasantly buzzing and her chest warmed from small sips of good bourbon on a full stomach.

They’d touched on Lexa’s recent break-up only briefly, Clarke not wanting to belabor the sensitive subject, though it was hard to avoid entirely. She hands off a glass to Lexa as she passes by her chair. Despite her best intentions, their fingers graze during the exchange, and Clarke must concentrate in the aftermath not to trip over her own feet.

“I’m staying busy, which helps. In the end, I think it was probably the right thing to do—we were spending a lot of time apart and then bickering when we were finally in the same place. But, it’s never easy, is it?”

Clarke exhales and shakes her head in sympathy. “Nope. It almost always sucks.”

“Yeah. I spent quite a few nights crying to Bonnie Raitt and drinking cheap wine.”

A loud cackle escapes before Clarke can smother it with her hand, but Lexa is already smiling when their eyes meet. “Sorry. But, that’s an image.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.” Lexa raises her glass in Clarke’s direction. “I’m glad some good can come of my suffering.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”

“No, you should. It was pitiful.”

Clarke reins in her laughter by clearing her throat. Her curiosities seem to be growing rampant the longer they talk, and the drinks are making it more difficult to resist them. “So, you have an apartment in Boston, but I’m assuming you don’t spend a lot of time here?”

“Not much in the last couple years, no. Costia was never around for long intervals either, but we often ended up working on the same humanitarian crises.” Lexa seems to contemplate whether or not she’ll continue, giving Clarke these increasingly unguarded looks. “I think I would like to spend more time in one place, if I had a reason to stick around.”

Clarke swallows thickly and realizes belatedly that she has, perhaps, not thought this preposterous strategy through to its entirety. At a certain point, she is going to have to face this rash, reckless decision to sleep in a shared space with Lexa, albeit in separate beds. She has very little confidence in her own skills to navigate their arrangement with any level of success and hopes Lexa might take the lead.

Fate intervenes with an incoming text from her insurance company, which buzzes her phone from where it sits on the armrest.

“Well, this is helpful,” she says with an eye roll after reading the message.

“What is it?”

Clarke reads aloud: _Thank you for your continued patience, and we do apologize for any inconvenience, but towing services will not be available to your location until 7:00A._

“You should think about switching coverage,” Lexa jokes.

“I should also think about getting some sleep if they’re planning on showing up here by 7:00.”

“Oh. Right.” Lexa shifts in her seat where she’d been lounged and relaxed, legs slung over an armrest. She sets her drink down and stands unsteadily to her feet. She doesn’t seem excessively drunk, though Clarke grins at the memory of Lexa accurately calling herself a _lightweight_. “Do you prefer the penthouse or ground floor?”

Clarke stands as well, stretching her limbs with a nervous laugh as they turn to face the half of the room that is comprised of large, white pine beds stacked one over the other. Sophisticated bunk beds with buffalo plaid flannel sheets and Hudson Bay blankets, draped over each end.  

“Um, lower bunk is fine by me. If that’s okay.”

“Great,” Lexa exhales. “I’ll take the loft.”

:::

They take turns in the bathroom, sharing nervous smiles during the exchange. Clarke checks her reflection seven times for any rogue toothpaste smears, running her hands through her hair, and taking several deep breaths. She exits to find Lexa standing awkwardly near the ladder to her loft bunk, holding two glasses of water. She’s turned out most of the lights, leaving them stood in a small circle of light from the wall sconces beside the bunks.

“Here,” she says.

Clarke accepts the glass with an anxious smile. “Thanks.” Her mouth suddenly dry, Clarke takes a long sip of water. “I’m sorry for being lame and going to bed before midnight.”

“I can’t see why staying matters—it’ll still be 2019 when we wake up tomorrow.”

_Bubbly champagne. Strewn confetti. Bold kisses._

“Good point.” Clarke takes another deep breath before setting her glass on a small ledge beside her bed. “Okay, well, goodnight.”

She watches Lexa swallow as her eyes dance across Clarke’s face for quick seconds. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

:::

Sleep will be a pipe dream. Clarke lies in the darkness with a racing heart and eyes boring a hole into the bed above her. She won’t sleep for hours at this rate. She grabs for her phone and taps into her messages with Raven.

 _we have a LOT to discuss_ , she types.  

The reply comes back immediately: _did you see a bear? hug a moose? fall into a river?_

 _no_ , Clarke answers.

_I should’ve gone with you. What happened?_

Clarke bites her lip, thumbs hovering over her touch screen.

_would have been a little crowded with you here since I’m already sharing the house with your girlfriend’s extremely attractive younger sister_

Her phone is buzzing in the next instant with an incoming call which she hurries to silence. A FaceTime request follows, which she also rapidly declines.

_can’t talk right now dumbass she is literally sleeping in the bed above me right now. car is fucking stuck will explain later_

_CLARKE WTF_

She hears movement in the bed above her and freezes, holding her breath. The linens shift but then fall silent again, and Clarke slowly exhales. When she returns her attention to her phone, Raven has already sent four other messages:

_(11:16P) CLARKE. I need more information._

_(11:16P) SEPARATE BEDS????_

_(11:17P) you’re stranded with a beautiful woman and still sleeping ALONE?!_

_(11:17P) HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING_

She bites back a laugh at Raven’s dramatics. At the very least, it will be an entertaining story to recount to her best friend. The proximity to Lexa is making her wired, while the residual effects of booze leave her feeling a bit deviant and playful like she hasn’t felt in ages. She ignores Raven’s texts and opens her music app instead.

Bonnie Raitt hasn’t even sung the opening bars of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” before a pillow is sailing into the side of Clarke’s head, quite skillfully for the angle she must have chucked it, followed quickly by Lexa’s bubbled laughter.

“You’re an asshole,” she says, and though Clarke can’t see her face she can tell by the sound of Lexa’s voice that she is still smiling.

“Sorry,” Clarke says, pausing the music and laughing along. After a moment she says, “I can’t sleep.”

Lexa sighs. “Me neither.”

“Do you want your pillow back?”

“No. I think there are twelve others up here.”

Clarke shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position that will help her relax but is failing miserably. The light, lingering scent on the pillow Lexa had assaulted her with certainly isn’t fucking helping. She takes another cleansing breath, determined to lower her pulse.

“I’m really glad I stayed.”

A beat of stretched silence has Clarke’s nerves racing again, but then Lexa softly responds, “Me too.”

:::

Waking up is far stranger than falling asleep had been, but it is not at all unpleasant.

She watches Lexa creep down the wooden ladder and into the bathroom without ever looking in her direction. Clarke has been awake for nearly an hour, wondering how to approach their shared morning with any shred of nonchalance. By the time Lexa emerges again, Clarke has stacked the pillows up against the headboard and propped herself against them.

At the sight of Lexa’s bed-mussed hair, her tee shirt and sweatpants hanging loosely off her frame, Clarke momentarily loses her train of thought. Then Lexa smiles shyly, and Clarke’s brain short-circuits.

“Hi. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Clarke manages to scratch out. As her thoughts continue to lag, she sticks to the basics. “Coffee?”

Lexa looks like she might collapse from relief. “Yes.”

Clarke laughs, sliding her legs from beneath the blankets onto the floor. “Yeah. Same.”

She adjusts her flannel shorts and then her sleep shirt, which has slipped off one shoulder, looking up to find Lexa has gone very still. They’re stood a bit closer than Clarke had intended, enough that she can see Lexa’s throat bob in a rough swallow.

“I just need to—” Clarke loosely gestures to the bathroom doorway that Lexa is somewhat blocking.

Lexa finally blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

There’s an awkward shuffle to move around one another, but Clarke latches the door successfully despite her shaky hands. She rinses her face, empties her bladder, brushes her teeth, and briefly but very seriously considers the merits of a cold shower.

When she cautiously enters the kitchenette, Lexa has already started a kettle and is plugging in a grinder for the bag of coffee beans on the counter. “Did you honestly bring your own grinder?” she laughs.

“It’s not very often that I get to indulge in my little creature comforts,” Lexa shrugs, but Clarke can tell that she’s embarrassed her.

“Hey.” She gently pokes a finger against Lexa’s side, and Lexa freezes. “I’m only kidding.”

It’s the first purposed contact they’ve had since Clarke’s arrival, and the implications seem to settle over them even as Clarke pulls her hand back and clears her throat. She’s ready to apologize when Lexa abandons the coffee beans and reaches out for her fingers.

“Clarke, can I—”

It’s more than Clarke can handle—the soft touch of Lexa’s skin, the quiet uncertainty of her ask, and the cracking tension in the air around them. She closes the gap between Lexa’s breath and hers, crowding into her when Lexa’s hand slides onto her waist. The kiss is as much slow and soft as it is eager. Lips and tongues slide together with a kind of unexpected intuition, careful presses and warm breaths.

When they break apart, Lexa has this dazed look as she breathlessly tells her, “I wanted to do that yesterday.”

Clarke smiles as her hands wander into Lexa’s wild curls. She presses their bodies closer together in the cramped kitchenette as she’d daydreamed about more than once the day before.

“I did too.” Lexa’s answering smile nearly touches her own. “Can we do that again?”

Lexa is nodding even as she leans down to recapture Clarke’s mouth, soft tugs and slow licks. The rhythm of the kiss has her entire body thrumming, but a distant buzzing reaches Clarke’s ears just as Lexa’s hands slip beneath her tee shirt. Her hands are so warm and sure—Clarke wants them to trace maps across her entire body.

The incessant buzzing persists, and Clarke is finally dragged out of the moment. “Shit. My phone—that’s probably the insurance company about the tow.” They stand panting the same air for another second before Clarke grins with a bright note of laughter. “I’ll grab my phone, you finish the coffee.”

“Okay,” Lexa answers distractedly, gaze still locked on Clarke’s mouth.

Clarke laughs again, settling her hands onto Lexa’s shoulders to create some separation between them. She steals another kiss—a wordless promise that they will resume this exploration momentarily. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time the coffee grinder has stopped churning, she is poking her head back into the kitchen with phone in hand. She pauses to watch the way Lexa is stood there, one hand near her mouth and lost in thought.

“Hey,” she smiles, her stomach dipping when Lexa looks up to meet her eye. She waves her phone to indicate the message. “That was the towing company. I’m gonna get dressed—they should be here soon.”

Lexa only nods, dropping her hand from her face to brace it along the counter’s edge. “Okay.”

Clarke wonders if after a solitary kiss, she has already reduced Lexa to one-word responses and returns to her luggage with a grin on her lips and some swagger in her step.

:::

Twenty minutes has them both dressed in jeans and a soft sweaters, Clarke in black and Lexa’s knit a heather grey. Clarke is drinking fresh coffee and sitting on a stool at the petit breakfast counter. Lexa stands across from her sipping her own coffee while they share coy smiles over the rims of their coffee mugs. There is a lot they aren’t saying, but Clarke doesn’t care. She is content in their shared quiet. The sun is reflecting off freshly fallen snow, the tiny house smells of coffee, and feel of Lexa’s kiss is still on her lips.

Eventually she says, “What are you thinking?” having watched variations of Lexa’s shifting grin flit across her face.

Lexa considers her for a moment longer, setting her coffee cup back onto the counter with a gentle clink. “I’m wondering if it’s rude to thank my sister for breaking up with her girlfriend so that I was able to meet you.”

Clarke can feel her face warming, even as she laughs past her nerves and returns to her coffee. “Maybe we would have met eventually anyway.”

“Maybe.”

A large truck rumbles up the driveway, and Clarke cranes her head to see out the front windows of the house where a black and red tow truck has pulled up alongside her car.

She looks back to Lexa with a short sigh. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Not exactly.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I think at a certain point, they might have you removed by force?” When Lexa’s smile widens, Clarke starts contemplating ways to prolong their time together.

:::

It takes less time for the tow truck to pull Clarke’s car from the mud than it takes for her to pack up her duffel and tidy the house before they leave. In under an hour she and Lexa are latching their seatbelts and desperately waiting for the heat in Clarke’s car to warm as it pumps out of the vents.

“Thanks again for the lift.” Lexa is again bundled in her parka, wool hat, and fingerless gloves, cheeks and nose pink from the cold.

“Sure.” Clarke breathes into her closed fists a few times then rubs her hands together. “What did you have planned for the day?”

“I should get back to my apartment, though I don’t really want to.”

“That’s good,” Clarke grins, leaning over the console. “Because I was planning on bringing you back to mine.”

“For breakfast?” Lexa asks unsurely.

Clarke raises a teasing brow, just before their lips meet. “Sure. We can do that too.”

Their laughter dissolves into more sweet kisses, but Lexa is still smiling when Clarke pulls back to run her thumb along her lower lip. Lexa kisses the tip of her thumb, sending tingles up her arm.

“Have I mentioned that I’m very pleased with the onset of 2019?” Lexa says.

Clarke closes the gap between them again, resolving to make more time in the new year for kissing Lexa as often as possible. “Me too.”  

:::

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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